We're leaving, conspicuously discarded, a long, cylindrical thingummy with a number of levers and handles; something resembling the butt of a rifle at one end and a narrow hole in the other. Should the levers, notably the trigger-shaped one, be pulled, nothing much will happen -- unless it's being pointed at someone else. In which case that someone
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She'll be lifting it her way, about to pull the trigger.
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"What the fuck are you doing?"
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A blink of consternation. That's not disconcerting. At all.
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"What're you doing with that?"
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She shoots at Locke.
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Then it does. And he almost flinches because of it. "I'm what to you?"
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That's Robin, standing in the doorway.
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Experimentally, he tugs one of the lever/trigger things. Since it isn't loaded.
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"Damn."
The dose of self-loathing and fear is a lot to take in, espescially, or even for the puck.
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She's not sure she wants to talk to him, right now.
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He's not the MUC, anymore.
He's someone she wants to give a hug to.
Again.
Except this time, it's not an inexplicable love for the world in general, it's just because she feels so, so, so sorry for him.
She just starts to cry.
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